


No Place Like Home

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Drunk Sex, First Time, M/M, PWP, for a prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 12:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt: Sherlock and John spend their Christmas apart - then come home, get drunk, and have sex. Welp, that is a pretty apt description of this.</p><p><i>John would like a shower. He feels like he’s sweating whiskey and the longer he sits in the room with Sherlock the worse it gets. Does he have to be so…languid all the time? John can’t even cross the room without staring these days.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	No Place Like Home

“Jesus Christ,” John sighs, drops heavily into his chair “She bought me whiskey, fed me whiskey, poured at least three bottles of wine. I think,” he slurs, tips his head back, closes his eyes, “I may be drunk.”

John can hear Sherlock shift on the sofa. “Well,” he starts, and John notices his voice is a bit deeper, a bit slower than it usually is. “I’d say that the best of available evidence all points to the fact that you _are_ stupendously drunk.”

“Is that your measured opinion?”

“It is my professional opinion, based on all empirical evidence.”

John looks over, really sees Sherlock for the first time since he got home from Harry’s. He’s sprawled out, limbs askew, one long leg falling bare from his blue dressing gown and arched over the back of the sofa. His is eyes are closed, black lashes fanned out over his cheeks.

John licks his lips. “Empirical evidence suggests you might be drunk, too.”

“Possibly. Mother did have a lovely Cotes du Rhone with the pheasants. And Uncle Gabriel insisted on a few glasses of Lagavulin, after.”

“And you didn’t eat, did you.” John sighs, shifts in his chair. Sherlock stretches, arches his back and the temperature in the room goes up a few degrees.

“I did. Some. I adore a well-made soufflé.”

John chuckles. “Ponce.”

“Plebian.”

“Fair.”

John would like a shower. He feels like he’s sweating whiskey and the longer he sits in the room with Sherlock the worse it gets. Does he have to be so…languid all the time? John can’t even cross the room without staring these days. He does lean forward, rummages around in his bag and pulls out the bottle of scotch his sister gave him, twists off the cap and takes a healthy swig.

Sherlock watches John with liquid eyes as he crosses the room, hands him the bottle. Sherlock takes it, tips it back, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.  John takes the bottle back, has another long pull and sits it on the coffee table before dipping down to kiss the whiskey off of Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock fists his hand in John’s shirt, pulls him down until John has to kneel across Sherlock’s legs.

“You’re not wearing anything under that robe, are you?” John asks, kisses Sherlock under the ear and grins at his gasp.

“Not at all. Had to strip. Whole suit smelled like Uncle Marcus’ cigars.”

“You don’t,” John says, nuzzles his nose down into the vee of Sherlock’s dressing gown, kisses his chest. He smells delectable, clean and with a hint of his expensive aftershave. 

Sherlock moans, arches. “Never expected this.”

John gropes his hand under the robe, feels his way up Sherlock’s leg. “You look too good tonight,” he murmurs, squeezes Sherlock’s thigh.

“I look good every night.”

“You do. But spending my Christmas with Harry just reinforced that I should have stayed here with you.” John kisses him again, dips his tongue between Sherlock’s lips to caress his mouth. “Always better with you.”

Sherlock pulls back and grins at him. “I wondered how long it’d take you to realize that.”

“About as long as it took to get to the bottom of a whiskey bottle. The first time.” John leans back and flips Sherlock’s dressing gown open, exposes his entire front. John groans at the sight of Sherlock’s cock. Long and curved and hard, twitching obscenely.  “God, look at that gorgeous thing.” John leans down, breathes across the head, enjoying the way Sherlock jumps and gasps.

“Fuck, just do it already,” Sherlock says.

John smirks, shifts backward and leans down to kiss Sherlock’s belly. “Should’ve known you’d be bossy in this, too.”

Sherlock snorts, lets his legs fall open. John presses his lips against the soft head of Sherlock’s cock, licks the salty sweetness from the tip before opening his mouth and letting it slide inside until it lays heavily against the back of his throat. He swallows, and Sherlock chokes out a cry above him. John sucks a little harder, insinuates a hand under Sherlock’s balls until he can press the tip of his finger against Sherlock’s entrance and rub in gentle circles.

Sherlock groans, tilts his hips suggestively, lets John know in no uncertain terms that his caress is welcome. John pulls off, wets his fingers and pushes one into Sherlock slowly with long, slow strokes that makes John’s eyes slide closed when he thinks about how that tight heat will feel around his cock.

The whiskey has his head a little fuzzy, nothing registering but the smell of Sherlock’s skin, the velvety softness of his body. Distantly he’s aware that this should be a more significant event, something he always thought would be fraught with nerves and second thoughts, but the sure inevitability of it, the comfort they share with each other carries him along, makes him confident in what he’s about to do.

He pulls himself away, stands and takes off his clothes, winks when Sherlock’s stare settles very obviously on his cock. He turns deliberately and darts through the kitchen to the bathroom to snatch the jar of Vaseline under the sink. Not his favorite lube, but convenient and God knows if Sherlock has anything in that tip he calls his bedroom.

John heads back at a quick trot but stops in the doorway of the kitchen, heartstill at the sight of Sherlock, gloriously naked and aroused waiting on the sofa, just for him. In vino veritas, he thinks wryly, and crosses the room to settle back into the vee of Sherlock’s thighs.  He slicks a bit of Vaseline over his cock and gently rubs a little into Sherlock’s arse before hitching a long, pale leg around his hip.

“All right?” he breathes, looking right into Sherlock’s eyes as he settles his cock in the crease of his arse.

Sherlock nods, kisses John hard and wraps his arms around John’s waist. His skin is flushed, pink from his neck to his chest, and his eyes are sparkling. “What are you waiting for?” he asks, and bites his lip, a perfect coquette.

John smirks, grips his cock, bears his weight forward steadily until the head of his cock slips in. Sherlock sighs, breathes deep, and his body relaxes, opens. John rocks forward again, thrusting inch by inch until he’s buried fully, his groin nestled against Sherlock’s arse.  The tight heat is overwhelming, and John falls forward onto his elbows, no longer able to hold himself up on his hands.

Sherlock shifts his hips, presses his lips to John’s temple. “Move,” he says breathlessly. “I need you to move.”

“Yeah,” John says. He thrusts gently, knowing if he starts too fast, too deep, it’ll all be over much too soon. Sherlock’s having none of it, though, and grips John’s arse, encouraging him to move faster, deeper, whispers filthy little bribes in his ear that leave John gasping and laughing, barely able to keep a steady rhythm.

John wants Sherlock to come first, wants to watch that beautiful face crumple in ecstasy at John’s own hand. So he reaches between them, works Sherlock’s cock with fast strokes. Sherlock cries out, gasps his pleasure, meets John stroke for stroke until he arches, digs his fingers into John’s hips and comes hard, shuddering. John grins against Sherlock’s skin, releases his cock.

“Gorgeous,” he says, kisses the sweet curve of his shoulder. He can feel the start of his own orgasm skittering up his spine, and when he pushes back up on his hands he sees a sated, sly smile appear on Sherlock’s face. He’s about to ask what Sherlock’s up to until he feels long fingers stroke his balls. The sensation is exquisite, and John only manages a couple more thrusts before he tips over the edge himself, shuddering and gasping.

They lay together, John starting to drift off, reveling in the feeling of Sherlock’s body against his, the pleasant muzziness of alcohol and the afterglow of a stupendous orgasm.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” he murmurs, and pulls the afghan off the back of the sofa to cover them both.

Sherlock reaches back over the arm of the sofa, switches off the lamp and plunges the room into darkness, relieved only by the glow of the low-burning fire. “Merry Christmas, John,” he says, and wraps his arms around John’s shoulders and drifts to sleep.

 

 

 

 


End file.
